Pre-Op Mercies

A few small kindnesses in a pre-op room reminded me that how we care for people can matter more than the things we do for them.

I had a hydrocelectomy a couple of weeks ago. Recovery is going as expected, which is slower than I’d like, but no complaints here. No complications, either, thankfully.

The technician who wheeled me back to pre-op seemed out of it – like she might have had a bad day and was barely getting through.

She parked my wheelchair in my pre-op room and in a monotone, rapid-fire fashion gave me my instructions. I won’t get this all right, but it’ll give you a feel for what she said.

“Remove your clothes and put on this gown and cap. Wipe your body down with these.” She handed me what appeared to be a package of gigantic wet wipes. “Use one for each extremity. Don’t use them in your private areas. Put these on.” She handed me those super attractive, non-slip hospital bootie things. “Pull the curtain back a little when you’re done. That’s a signal to your nurse that you’re ready. Any questions?”

When I type it out in paragraph form, it seems rather sensible. But it was just so much information all at once that I found it difficult to absorb. After she was gone, I undressed and stared at the pack of wet wipes, pulling out the first one.

It was a piece of foam, about the size of a brick. It didn’t have any moisture to it. Surely I wasn’t supposed to rub it on my arms, was I? I reached back inside the package and realized the foam sheet was a separator between the wipes. I wiped my body down, avoiding my private areas as instructed.

After securing my cap and gown, I sat down to put on the booties. They were XL, supposedly, but I have big feet and couldn’t even get them past my heel. As I struggled mightily, a nurse pulled the curtain and introduced herself as my pre-op nurse.

“Oh, those socks are too small, honey.” Her tone was warm and friendly, setting me at ease. “I’ll get you some that will fit.” She returned with yellow, 3XL booties. Those went on much easier. I wasn’t going to win any fashion awards, but I will never win one anyway.

By then, I was in bed, and my armpits were on fire.

“Uh oh, did you use the wipes on your underarms?”

“I did.”

“That’s why we tell you to avoid your private areas.”

I had no idea underarms are considered private areas, but I didn’t express that to her.

“Let me know if you need something for that.”

The fact that she even wanted to meet such a small need set me further at ease. I just toughed it out though. I mean, who wants to be remembered as the guy who complained about his armpits?

I warned her that I’m a tough stick when it comes to IVs. She looked my arms over and picked out a spot, confident she could hit it. Then she told me she’d give me lidocaine to deaden the pain. I’ve never had that before when getting an IV. I didn’t even feel it when she went in for the stick.

She was patient as she went through my medication list, sympathizing with the fact that I’d done that during my pre-op appointment a few weeks prior, then on the phone with someone a week or so prior and then on the phone with someone the day before.

Her sympathy and overall way she treated me made me feel like we were on the same side. She felt like my advocate.

Once everything was set up, she sent for my wife. And that’s when things started to get a little foggy. Someone else had come in and started the happy juice – a sedative, I presume. I don’t remember much after that.

Eventually I was wheeled into an operating room and put to sleep. But the nurse’s kindness stuck with me. She didn’t do anything extraordinary, at least not by the standards of her job.

She started an IV, checked my medications, answered my questions and made sure I had socks that fit. Yet somehow, in a place where I was at my most vulnerable, she made me feel like somebody was looking out for me.

She reminded me that not only do my actions as a husband, caregiver, uncle and friend matter but the way I perform those actions probably means even more. I can either make someone feel loved or I can make someone feel like … well, the technician who wheeled me in the pre-op. She didn’t do anything wrong. I just doubt that I’ll remember my experience with her. But I’ll remember my experience with my nurse.